Omake Files
by klinneah
Summary: "Omake: extra or deleted scene." Drabbles, oneshots, and outtakes that don't fit anywhere else. Chapter 4: Fully Loaded
1. Deleted Scene 1: Letter to Blaine

**Welcome back, guys. So this is a little bit different: here I've got drabbles, one-shots, and short fics that might fit into the canon of one of my stories but for whatever reason wasn't/won't be uploaded with that story. I do take prompts, and if you'd like to prompt me, just drop a review here, or send me an ask on tumblr (painted-polar-bear).**

**This first installment is Chapter 1: A Letter. This follows shortly after Scars On Your Wrists, and while you won't need to have read that story to enjoy this one, having some background information will make this more than just a letter.**_  
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><p><em>Dearest Blaine,<em>

_Please don't cry. Not for me. Cry because I was stupid enough to push you away when I got too scared. Cry because I never said everything I wanted to say, because we'll never move to New York and rent a closet-sized apartment and own a cat. Well, you can always go to New York anyway, and don't you dare feed that cat anything but organic. And don't you dare blame yourself for anything._

_That's really important, Blaine, and I'm going to say it again because I know you won't listen the first time: Don't. Blame. Yourself._

_Seriously. I know you will anyway. Don't do it._

_My issues were not your issues. My personal life was not yours to be burdened with. I know you would have brought me the moon if I asked for it, but don't you see, that's only a reason not to ask. I know you would have wanted to help, and maybe I would have unloaded on you anyway if I'd gotten the chance._

_That's not the point._

_You did everything I ever could have asked of you. More than everything._

_You were supportive._

_You were reassuring._

_You were _there_._

_And that's all I ever wanted from you. Hell, that's all you could have done anyway. I think if I hadn't had you, if I had been truly alone, I would have gone a long time ago. You _saved_ me, Blaine, and more important, you made me happier than I'd ever been in my entire life up to the very last day._

_Please don't imagine that everything you did wasn't enough. Please don't beat yourself up, or think that if only you'd done this or that. Beyond caring for me, making me feel less worthless sometimes, holding me when I couldn't stop crying...there wasn't much that could be done. I was sick, Blaine, and I needed more help than maybe it was humanly possible for anyone to give. Even with that, Blaine, I loved you more than you can possibly know._

_I loved you._

_I love you._

_Now you have to let go._

_Not now. God, not now. Grieve. But then let go. You've reached the end of the book, Blaine; you can't look at that last page forever, waiting for something more to happen. You have to put it down and find something new. That doesn't mean you forget...but you have to move on._

_I love you._

_(Your Kurt)_


	2. Badboy Kurt

Blaine glanced from his schedule to the room number for the third time in a minute (he checked the instructor's name on the door, too, just to make sure), sighed, and tripped over someone's pencil case on his way to the least gum-encrusted seat in the room. Groaning, he plopped down somewhere in the third row just before the bell rang and resolved _not_ to let the first day of school get to him. Public schools tended to suck a great deal more than private schools that cost more per semester than an entire car dealership's worth of Honda Civics.

The click of heels drawing closer Blaine ignored (largely because the teacher was already in the room), preferring to (hopefully) get a little homework done rather than chuck paper balls across the room. Mrs. Henderson was grading papers and looking as though class would not be beginning anytime soon, but _really._ He wondered, vaguely, who on earth would go to all the trouble of dressing up in heels in the morning and then not bother to go to class on time, and went back to his book.

Then Kurt Hummel walked in the door.

Kurt, a junior, was already the talk of the school. Kurt was a legend. Kurt was a _badass. _The rumors about him far outflew the actual man, as far as the administration was concerned when it came to keeping him in line, but as far as poor transfer Blaine knew, Kurt was exactly the kind of 'wrong crowd' he'd always been warned not to hang around.

Kurt Hummel, school legend told, had once been suspended for beating three football players to a pulp in the school parking lot, after one of them had sneered and made several lewd comments about Kurt's mother, profession, sexuality, and preferred weekend activities (the football player had included himself in that last part, saying something along the lines of "I'll muss up your pretty hair, you fairy.").

Kurt had flicked his still-burning cigarette butt in their general direction. Thus, fight.

The question of his expulsion on nearly every count in the book was completely moot. How the hell he had survived a beatdown from _three_ of the biggest dudes on campus, without so much as a bruise, was another matter entirely.

Blaine wasn't exactly up on the latest gossip, so all he saw was an incredibly suave, sexy young man stub out a cigarette, slap a stack of papers on the teacher's desk, and throw himself into an empty seat, propping his feet up on a desk that looked as though that wasn't the worst abuse it had experienced.

At that point, it was probably a good thing that Mrs. Henderson barely noticed anything that went on in her own classroom.

Blaine couldn't stop staring. He couldn't. Kurt was, quite simply, drop-dead gorgeous and kinda wild-looking (probably the leather). Screw that, it was definitely the leather. The three eyebrow piercings might have had a hand in it too.

Then Kurt turned around in his chair and _winked_. Straight at him. From a much closer vantage point than Blaine had originally thought. Right next to him. Directly across the aisle. Great.

Blaine gulped.

Fortunately, Mrs. Henderson chose that particular moment to stand up and start talking about American History or trigonometry or whatever class this was, and start passing out worksheets. Kurt completely ignored the papers and continued to fiddle with a lighter (how did he get _that_ into school?). Blaine tried very, very hard not to make eye contact when he turned around to pass the papers, or brush against his arm, or make any contact at all, really.

All for nothing when Kurt leaned over and plucked a pen from Blaine's backpack.

"Thanks babe," he drawled, darting his tongue over his lips and - was that a tongue ring?

_Shit._

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><p><strong>Ugh, you guys, this new season seems to have triggered my writer's block. I've been trying to work on SO,MS but this came out instead.<strong>

**Kurt's opening line is directly lifted from _Go Your Own Way_ by Zavacado. Go read it. It's awesome.  
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	3. Sunshine Twins I

He smiled as he turned around, calculus textbook still in hand, and saw a familiar face.

"Hey Britt, how about that homew-"

"Wash the gel out before you talk to me, Blaine."

He blinked at her retreating form, not sure exactly what had just happened.


	4. Fully Loaded Part 1

Chest heaving, you finished the duet deep in his personal space, feeling the heat of exertion radiating from his skin, unable to look at anything but his brown eyes, the curve of his nose, his parted lips-

And he grabbed you by the hair and shoved his pretty lips against yours, wormed his tongue into your mouth, and you backed him up against the wall, teeth clacking as he slipped one hand up your shirt and the other under your thigh. He kissed you roughly, on your lips, jaw, neck, throat, fingered at the hemline of the skirt you'd almost decided not to wear before saying "oh, to hell with it;" you registered (vaguely) the awkward shuffle of the cello guys hurriedly exiting but after that you couldn't hear anything but his heavy breathing in your ear, you couldn't feel anything but his fingers groping at your thigh and creeping up your stomach, the press of his lips on the juncture of your jaw and neck, just - _there_ - the faint (desperate) twitch of his hips, you couldn't see anything but his wide brown eyes when he pulled away and just _looked_ at you.

You'd never been looked at like that before, had you?

Which is why you tipped your head, put on your bitchface, and said,

"You're not my type."

He'd smirked, then, hadn't he, and said,

"I'll take that as a challenge."

He spun you around then, flung you against the wall and ground his hips into yours, digging his fingers into your ass, breathing hotly into your ear while you hooked one an ankle around his waist and rolled your hips just so. You grabbed him by the collar, yanking his mouth away from your jaw so you could suck a dark bruise into his neck, whispered "You couldn't get me off if you wanted to," relished the breathy whimper that followed. "Just try," you said, hiking your other leg around his middle and forcing him to bear all your weight but he just pressed his body harder onto yours, trembling a little with the effort as you started gently grinding into the curve of his deliciously hard cock.

"You c-couldn't get me off if you tried," he said, and you heard how he tripped over it, how he had already started falling apart and all you had to do was kick over the pieces and you'd walk out the undisputed HBIC. So you smirked into his skin as you grabbed at handfuls of his hair, tipping his head back for better access to his throat. You were both gasping for air, panting into the stillness of the empty room and as you braced your hand on his shoulder you could feel that it was damp with sweat.

He surprised you then, didn't he?

You felt his fingers, searching more nimbly than you expected, unraveling you faster than you wanted, jerking you off less roughly than you liked. But you couldn't disguise your breathy little whimpers, the way you pressed back too eagerly onto his hand, or the way your legs began to tremble with the starry sparks of pleasure that rocked through your core at every stroke.

"Is that what you like?" he breathed into your neck, wrist moving jerkily in time with each thrust of his hips that ground you into the wall behind you. "Getting fucked into the wall? This is nothing, sweetheart, and you're practically begging for more." His breath was shaky, loud, and shallow, and his whole body quivered as he shifted his feet.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were enjoying yourself, Floozy Funbags," you somehow managed to snark, "I guess that whole 'gay' thing is either a cover or you actually spent some time in the closet learning to play the banjo." He growled but didn't say anything, and you fucked his fingers with abandon, yanking at his hair and blazer as you felt yourself drifting up, and up, and up, every point of yourself drawing into the coiling warmth in your gut, tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and tighter, until-

He drew in a sharp breath, hips stilling as he stiffened against you, whole body trembling but he shoved two fingers in deep, probing, and the sudden stretch ignited white under your skin and you screamed out as the coiling pleasure broke and ripped through you like a punch to the gut.

You both slumped to the floor, dizzy and loose-limbed, still breathing heavily. Without the moaning and groaning, the room seemed much quieter.

As soon as you felt your legs had recovered from your post-orgasmic haze you stood, disciplining your hair into something less thoroughly-fucked, and found your hat laying abandoned under one of the chairs. You turned around and pointedly smirked at the blatant dark patch on the front of his slacks.

"I was better," you said. He actually laughed.

"Not even close."


End file.
